The Socratic Method
by Katiesmom07
Summary: House/Wilson SLASH oneshot fic set just after 'The Socratic Method' S1E6 where Wilson won't let House get away with not explaining why he doesn't like to celebrate his birthday.


Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the two sexy men you're about to read about. But if I do ever get a chance to purchase them, I will definitely NOT be sharing! LOL

Author's Notes: I have decided to embark on a little adventure. I have recently been popping in my old DVDs of season one of House and I was thinking of what I thought of the House/Wilson relationship at that exact point. So, I will be writing several oneshot fics each taking place directly after the episode they are named for. There will be spoilers for the episode mentioned, not that will matter since I'm sure each of us have already seen these eps, but I thought I'd better mention it or get scolded! Please keep in mind that I tried to push all information out of my mind except exactly what was given to us in the episode titled and previous episodes. Also, this will **not be a series**, saying that you will NOT have to read this one to read the next. Nothing that happened in this one will be mentioned or will have happened in the next. The only connection is that they will all be House/Wilson mostly SLASH fics. Hope you enjoy!

The Socratic Method

The apartment was engulfed in darkness aside from the silent television emitting intermittent flashes of light, casting sporadic shadows across the living room. With one arm tucked under his head and the other flung across his eyes, forcing his mind to only register the sight of the backs of his own eyelids, he was lying on the sofa, the throbbing in his right leg keeping him from willing himself to sleep. The open Vicodin bottle lying on its side on the coffee table, which normally provided him the temporary comfort he needed to slip into dreamland, had failed this evening, leaving him to wonder just why the hell he'd decided to be nice to a patient.

He could just of easily told the boy that his own mother had called Social Services, but no. Instead, he'd taken the wrap himself, letting the mother off the hook, keeping peace within the small family. What had possessed him? He was _never _nice to anyone, especially patients. But the crazy woman had intrigued him. Of course the fact that she turned out not to be crazy at all had left him utterly disappointed, but temporarily she'd peaked his interest.

The constant reminders from Cameron about his birthday had only pushed his annoyance level higher, distracting him from the current puzzle. But she hadn't given in. And one day he'd come across the wrapped package she'd handed him and maybe he'd open it. Until then, he wanted the yearly event to go unnoticed.

The familiar, light rap on the door interrupted his silence. Without even moving, he yelled, "Use your key."

Moments later he heard the scratching of the key in the lock, the clatter of said keys being tossed onto the table, the click of the door being shut and the flop of a jacket being flung across a chair. The footsteps came closer then stopped, yet no words came. His curiosity finally got the better of him and he half raised his arm and opened on eye to see a gift bag being dangled over his head. Returning to his original state he asked, "What's that?"

Wilson finally spoke. "I looked it up. It was your birthday a couple days ago."

"Looked it up?"

"Yeah, your hospital file."

Feigning offense, "That is such a huge violation of privacy."

House could nearly hear the roll of his friend's eyes. "So sue me. But do it after you open your gift."

"Not opening it."

"Why not?"

House finally made the move to rise, rubbing his eyes in the process. "How long have we been friends?"

Wilson moved around the couch to sit beside his older friend, intrigued by the question. "Ten years, give or take."

House nodded. "And how many times have we celebrated my birthday?" Wilson's brow wrinkled, trying to remember. After a moment of silence, House spoke again. "Don't hurt yourself. The answer is never. I don't celebrate. I don't open gifts. It's just a day."

With just a little frustration, Wilson lifted a six pack of beer out of the bag and asked, "In that case, wanna beer?" House took one, thinking to himself that if he did celebrate, that would have been his best gift ever, and watched as Wilson carried the other four bottles to the fridge. On his way back he asked, "Why is it that you don't celebrate?"

House rubbed at his forehead, not at all interested in having this conversation. "Not my thing."

Wilson flopped back onto the sofa saying, "Now, see, if this were anyone else listening to you, they might believe that. But we've been best friends for almost a decade and I happen to know that you will use _any_ excuse to get someone to buy you something. So the fact that you won't accept gifts on one of the days of the year that it is not only acceptable for you to ask for things, but also expected of you, is highly intriguing to me. So what gives?"

House looked yearningly at the Vicodin bottle, silently begging for it to send him into an oblivious bliss of deep sleep, far away from the conversation he knew was brewing. But he knew that he'd crossed the barrier of being able to posh the topic and convince Wilson's rational brain that this needn't be talked about. With a heavy sigh, he gave in after a long pull of his beer. "A birthday is supposed to be some celebration of all the good things that have happened over the past year and expectations of all the good things to come over the next year."

With a sarcastic tone, "Well thank you, Confucius, for that brief, yet fitting, description of a birthday that completely evaded the actual question."

House tried to hide his growing aggravation, but couldn't completely push the tone from his voice. "My point is that I have nothing to celebrate and nothing to look forward to."

Wilson leaned forward, his head hung, elbows resting on knees. As if trying to keep his hands busy, he picked at the label of his bottle as he spoke. "Stop with the miserable bullshit, will you? Everyone around you knows your miserable; we get it."

"I am not miserable. I'm in pain."

The slam of the amber bottle onto the coffee table was a little harder than Wilson had intended, but only added to the rise of his voice. "I know you're in pain. So do something about it!"

Despite the change in his friend's tone, House remained calm. "Do something? You mean like take some pain meds? Pain meds like the ones you rag on me day in and day out to quit taking? Yeah, why don't I just do that?"

His voice rising yet again, "Oh, stop! You don't take the damn pills to help your pain. You take them to hide your misery!"

The last comment broke House's even tone, sending his voice to match Wilson's yell. "Fine! Maybe I am miserable! But just what the hell would you like me to celebrate? My bum leg? The throbbing pain that rules every minute of my day? The empty apartment I come home to every night? What?"

"Well maybe if you didn't wear a damn sign that said you're incapable of being loved, you wouldn't be alone!"

House downed the last of his beer as he tried to calm the rapid beat of his heart. After he set the glass bottle down, quite a bit easier than Wilson had done with his a few minutes earlier, he stood. His eyes averted his friend's, looking anywhere, everywhere, avoiding the contact that would show too much emotion. "Maybe if you'd open your eyes and actually look at me, you'd realize that sign is for everyone _except_ you."

Without another word, he walked down the hallway to his bedroom, leaving his most-likely stunned friend seated on the sofa. Hobbling to his bed, he all but fell into it, not even bothering to shed his jeans. He hadn't meant to divulge his secret, but when faced with the moment, he couldn't force himself to not say it. It was true. He wanted Wilson to love him; love him in return. He was, in fact, in love with his best friend.

As he pushed himself to the middle of the bed, trying to find some comfortable position, cursing himself for leaving the Vicodin bottle in the living room, he tried to figure out whether he'd completely ruined the only relationship that meant anything to him. His heart ached at the thought of losing his best friend, seemingly in contest with the pain in his right leg. As he rubbed his thigh, he remembered the moment he'd realized he'd fallen in love.

Once released from the hospital after his accident, Wilson had insisted on coming to live with him temporarily until he learned to cope with his new disability and until some of the pain wore off. Ironically, the pain had never worn off, or even dulled, but House had found ways to deal with it better since then.

But the first week after being released had been the worst. House was more miserable than usual, hating being dependant on someone else, and barely dealt with the excruciating pain. But thru it all, the swearing, the sleepless nights, the yelling, Wilson had stayed right by his side. Every day, House had insisted upon attempting to cook his own meals, never getting past the halfway point without burning something or dropping complete dishes on the floor, always retreating to his room in a huff, leaving Wilson to not only clean up his mess, but also make him a new meal.

A week into his stay, House had come up with the brilliant idea that he would don a pair of jeans on his own. His efforts were quickly squashed with his losing his balance and crashing to the floor. He'd landed on his bad leg and had let out a horrendous yell. In seconds, Wilson was by his side, pain pills in hand. After popping pills into House's mouth, he immediately moved to the task of massaging the pain away.

It wasn't the massage that had won House over, though; it was Wilson's eyes. There was no look of horror or disgust from seeing the ugly scar like the many doctors and nurses House'd had in the hospital. Lost in the brown orbs was concern, sympathy and just a little pain of his own, sympathy pain, maybe. It was that moment that House had realized he'd fallen in love with James Wilson. Anyone who could put up with him during the worst time of his life and still care about him after all the abuse he put him thru, was worthy of his love.

But figuring out that he was in love hadn't changed anything. He'd never uttered a word or showed a sign. Instead, he'd treasured their friendship and hadn't so much as gone on a first date since that night. He never expected anything to come of it. He had no intention of ever letting his secret out. But that was all over now.

Now, the ball was in Wilson's court. He could walk away and never look back if he wanted. With that thought, House listened closely for a minute to see if he could hear any sign that Wilson hadn't left. True, House hadn't heard his friend leave, but he wasn't exactly paying attention either. As if on cue, he heard Wilson shuffle to the kitchen and the clink of the empty beer bottles being tossed in the sink. Moments later, he heard the familiar flop of Wilson's body onto the sofa. Something was keeping him here.

Willing himself to think of anything else, nothing else, he tried to push his mind to sleep. Tomorrow, he would face his consequences. Tonight, he just wanted to dream.

Halfway thru the night, without having taken his last dose of Vicodin, the shooting pain woke him with a start. The growl of pain and disgust was involuntary, but brought Wilson immediately to his side just as it had so many years ago. Again, the pills came followed by Wilson's hands on his jean-clad thigh.

They remained in silence for what seemed like an eternity, while the pain died down to a manageable state. Once House relaxed and his breathing returned to normal, he uttered his thanks, still unsure of his place. But his heart had hope, nestled in the fact that Wilson had not left.

With his voice just above a whisper, quite a contrast to his earlier outburst, "Welcome."

They were silent for a few minutes, House contemplating the time it took for Wilson to get to his side. "How'd you get here so fast?"

Even in the darkness House could see the blushed hew that rose to Wilson's cheeks. "I was standing in the doorway."

"You were watching me sleep?"

Obviously embarrassed, "I, uh…you started moaning in your sleep…the pain…and I knew you'd need your pills." House smiled inside, but didn't let his emotion surface. James Wilson was worried about him. The mood changed abruptly when Wilson stood and ran his hand thru his hair stating, "I'm married, House."

Pushing himself to his elbow and rolling to his left side, "I know."

Wilson walked to the wall, flattened his palms against them as if being arrested and hung his head. "Do you love me?"

A lump rose to House's throat, wondering whether his answer would make or break them. In a barely audible whisper, he answered, "Yes."

His voice rising, seemingly aggravated, "I'm _married._"

House rolled his eyes as he pushed himself to a seated position. "I think we've covered that."

Wilson turned, his arms flailing. "This is not a joke, House."

"I'm not laughing."

His hands finally came to rest on his hips. "Do you have any idea how serious this is?"

After a blowing out a deep breath, giving in to the fact that this was going to happen, like it or not, "Look, I…have feelings for you, feelings you obviously don't return, but that doesn't have to change anything. I've felt like this for years. Yes, it has made me a little miserable, I'll admit. But, hey, no one will ever know the difference if I just stay miserable."

The crack in Wilson's voice gave away his insecurity. "I'll know." House nodded curtly before Wilson continued. "I'm what makes you miserable?"

House stood, needing to do something, anything to keep himself busy. "No. No, you're what keeps me from going crazy. My…feelings for you…make me miserable. Nothing you can control." He walked out of the bedroom toward the kitchen, hearing Wilson in tow.

"I can so control it. If I loved you back, you wouldn't be miserable."

House flashed a raised eyebrow look across the kitchen, "Do you?"

"Of course I love you. You're my best friend."

Busying himself looking for nothing in particular in the open cabinets, "Ah. Wrong kind of love."

"And just what kind would be the right kind?" House rolled his eyes. "Seriously. Are you…in love with me?"

Pushing boxes and cans around, "Yep."

"Yep? That's what I get? Yep?"

House turned and leaned against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. "Look. It's the real thing. The 'Move in with me, I'd like to spend the rest of my life with you, I don't think I can live without you' love. But I'm not an idiot. I don't even know why I said anything." He ran a hand over his face. "I'm not expecting anything from you. Just…decide whether you're still gonna be my friend or not."

"I'm not leaving my wife."

House rolled his eyes before walking out of the kitchen, skirting around his friend in the process. "I didn't ask you to." He made his way to the bathroom and shut the door behind him before Wilson managed to get another word in. This had not gone as planned, mainly because it wasn't planned. He had been wrong earlier; he _was _an idiot.

He busied himself behind the closed door for as long as he could before inching it open. Peaking into the hallway, he found no sign of Wilson. Glancing into the living room, he saw that the lights had once again been shut off. With a sigh either of relief or frustration, he wasn't sure, he walked into his bedroom.

But the sight of Wilson in the far side of his bed caused his breath to catch in his throat. He quickly glanced around for discarded clothing and found the pair of slacks Wilson had been wearing earlier thrown over a chair, the dress shirt right next to them. His gaze moved back to Wilson's body, framed by the blanket that was covering him up to his stomach and the white t-shirt that clung to his upper torso. Lying on his back, one arm flung over his head, his eyes were closed as he pretended to sleep. House cleared his throat before saying, "Uh…I believe you're in my bed."

Without opening his eyes, "Yeah, well, if you're in love with me then I think I've graduated from the couch."

"Right." With a heavy sigh he plopped onto the side of the bed, discarded his jeans and moved under the covers. He stared at the ceiling for a few silent minutes before scooting closer to his bed partner and propped his bad leg against Wilson's thigh.

He expected to feel the jerk of Wilson pulling away, but instead felt no movement with his words. "What are you doing?"

"You're using the pillows that I usually pile under my leg. It feels better propped up."

A few silent minutes passed between them before Wilson spoke again. "I'm not leaving my wife."

"Yeah, you've established that."

"I…love you too."

"Yeah, I figured that out when I found you in my bed."

Wilson finally made the move to look at House. "So…what do we do now?"

House shrugged. "Dunno. It's not like I planned this. Right now, I'm tired."

"'Night, House."

"'Night, Wilson."

"Hey House?"

"What?"

"Kiss me goodnight."

"Don't be such a girl. Go to sleep." He felt the movement beside him, signifying that this was not over.

"Shut up and kiss me. You know you want to."

House opened his eyes, finding Wilson's face dangerously close to his own. "Yes I do. But question is, why do you want me to kiss you so bad?"

"Humor me."

It was Wilson who actually brought their lips together in the meeting House had dreamed about time and time again. Wilson's soft lips pressed against his, seemingly as hungry as his own, parting willingly with only the slightest of pressure. He tasted of stale beer and morning breath, both normally repulsive but in the moment, completely perfect. Their tongues danced together as if meeting again rather than for just the first time. Just as he'd started the kiss, Wilson ended it, pulling back ever so slightly.

House couldn't help the husky tone in his voice. "Humored?"

But instead of answering, he asked his own question. "Was it everything you fantasized about?"

A smile spread across his face as his eyes opened. "Yep."

Wilson chuckled as he moved back to his place on the other side of the bed. "As long as you keep smiling at me like that, then this will always be…whatever you want it to be."

"So this is all about making me happy?"

"For now."

"I can live with that." House smiled again as he pushed deeper into his pillow. "'Night, Wilson."

"'Night, House."


End file.
